


Find a flask, we're playing fast and loose

by TaleWeaver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Joffrey is a dick, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 07:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWeaver/pseuds/TaleWeaver
Summary: (historical AU-1920's) At the Starks' speakeasy and casino, all the family have their roles to play.  Sansa is Queen of the Highrollers - and she never, ever loses when it matters.





	Find a flask, we're playing fast and loose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jonsa-creatives spring challenge. Day 6: Song prompt - "All that Jazz" from the musical Chicago. However, I also need to give LOTS of credit to the awesome House Stark // Gangsters AU gifset at https://daughters-ofwinterfell.tumblr.com/post/172323618374/house-stark-gangsters-au
> 
> I know nothing about poker, everything in this story is from wikipedia. Researching 1920's slang was fun! I may have gone a little overboard, though... most of it should be clear by context, but a limited glossary is below, and the reference pages I used are listed after the story.
> 
> Chassis: a woman's body  
> Clams, Mazuma: cash, money, dollar bills  
> Big Timer: A charming and romantic man  
> Know your Onions: to know what’s up or what’s going on  
> Lounge Lizard: A ladies man. (ie Really Gets Around)  
> Ritzy (after the Ritz hotel): Upscale, elegant  
> Sheik: desirable young man  
> Flat Tire: Very boring person, or disappointing date.  
> Pushover: A person easily convinced or manipulated  
> Half-seas over, Ossified, Zozzled: drunk  
> Gasper: cigarette  
> Noodle juice: tea  
> Cancelled stamp: a shy, lonely female; one who can’t get a date  
> Sheba: desirable young woman, counterpart to ‘Sheik’.  
> Piker: (1) a cheapskate (2) a coward  
> Manacle: Wedding ring (an engagement ring was a 'Handcuff'!)

It was a Friday night in King's Landing, and the Stark’s joint, Winterfell - named after the family estate up North - was jumping. It always was.

In the club, the liquor flowed and the jazz was hot. The oldest of the Stark children, Robb, made sure of that as the host, and the youngest, Rickon, blew a mean trumpet in the house band. It was whispered that they both packed a gat in case any patron got out of hand.

The back rooms were for the gamblers. Ned Stark himself held sway over the pool tables in a side room, for those who wanted a more slow-paced game, and did business over the green felt. Bran Stark, the middle son, ran the casino and bank, with an eye for cheaters and cops that crossed the border into uncanny, and fed the rumours that back in the old days, the Starks had possessed the second sight and bred more than one witch. Arya Stark, the younger daughter, ran the casino bar, the bouncers, and the cigarette girls, who didn't offer anything more than cigarettes, drink orders, or gambling chips.

The deepest of the back rooms... that was Sansa Stark's kingdom.

You didn't even get to the door without a pocket full of clams, and it was for the high-rollers only. The oldest Stark daughter ran a table that was legendary for more than the fortunes won or lost. It was known throughout the city that Sansa was the choicest bit of calico in the Stark's place, on any night of the week. Men came from miles around to sit at her table, play her game, and gawk at her chassis.

They could look all they wanted... but never touch. There was more than one reason she was known as the Queen of Winter.

Tonight, she had a couple of regulars – Theon Greyjoy, who had buddied around with Robb since they were both in short pants, and his sister Yara. A recent addition to her regular players sat in the fourth chair. Oberyn Martell, visiting from down in Dorne, was a big timer who had every flapper in the joint panting after him. Osha, who worked the cloakroom and knew her onions like nobody else, said that he’d brought a mistress with him, but she didn’t care what he got up to as long as he came home to her every night, which he always did. In the meantime, though, he had sat at Sansa’s table every night for the past week, flirting shamelessly with her in a way that suggested he didn’t actually expect her to respond, he just thought it was fun.

The four were finishing up a game of five-card stud when a heavy thump came from the door, then another.

Sansa smirked.

Oberyn looked at her curiously.

“Someone’s trying to slam open the door,” she explained. “But our doors don’t slam easily.”

Another thump came, then a pause. Then a patterned knock, with the code for the night, indicating a patron who’d passed the money test.

From behind the bar, Jon pressed the hidden button to open the door, and a short, slim figure strode in, followed by a much taller and broader one.

“What’s the buy-in?” demanded a whining voice, as the new arrival swaggered across the room.

Joffrey Lannister - who used to be Joffrey Baratheon, before his father died and Cersei took herself and her children back to her own house. His grandfather, Tywin Lannister, was well and truly a big cheese, with fingers in pies on both sides of the law.

Sandor Clegane, famously nicknamed ‘The Hound’, followed one step behind as always. As Joffrey slumped into the empty chair, Clegane crossed to the small bar, and locked gazes with Jon Snow.

A heartbeat or two, and Clegane started pulling out his weapons, to be placed in the wooden box Jon had waiting on the bar.

A lot of people speculated about Jon Snow.  The same age as Robb, he was Ned's spitting image, but no one who saw Catelyn's face as she said his name would buy him as one of her brood. Some said he was Ned's boy, born wrong side of the blanket; some said he was born to Ned's wild older brother, the one who'd been engaged to Catelyn first, before the Targaryen's Great War killed him.

The one whisper that only a handful of people ever heard and lived, was about Ned's little sister, the wildest of them all and who'd died in that same war. The girl who so hated the thought of marrying that lounge-lizard Baratheon that she'd run off with a married man - and the name of that man was never spoken aloud.

But everyone knew a few things about Jon Snow.

He may not have the name, but he was one of the Starks. From his first day to his last day. He was their best fighter, and one of the fastest guns in the city. He was the youngest man in history to run the Night’s Watch, up North by the Wall; he'd left them behind when the Starks had called on him, but every man jack of them would still follow him beyond the Wall and back.

Nowadays, he was always by Sansa Stark's side: private bartender to her room, bouncer if any of the players turned boozehound and rowdy. Personal driver when she was out and about. Everyone knew why, too: everyone had heard about what the Bolton by-blow had tried on Sansa, and everyone knew what the Starks had done about it. Everyone knew it was Jon Snow who'd tracked the rabid dog, and brought him to earth.

After a quiet word with Jon, Clegane exchanged a wad of currency for a box of chips, which he brought to Joffrey, along with a crystal tumbler.

Joffrey took a long sip, and looked Sansa up and down: from the rhinestone bandeau around her forehead, the old-fashioned long hair she kept in a chignon, to all of the robin’s-egg blue evening gown that could be seen above the table top.

Sansa returned his sneer with a cool, blank look.

Joffrey thought of himself as a ritzy sheik, but Sansa had once had to date him for a short and painful time thanks to Ned and Robert Baratheon's long friendship. She could personally attest that he was nothing more than a flat tire... and if you were careful about it, a real pushover.

An hour later, Theon had gotten bored and wandered off to find Robb, and Yara had followed him so he didn’t get half-seas over and start a fight. Oberyn had cashed out, but remained at the table, watching the action and sipping on a French 75.

Sansa looked pointedly at the low stack of chips in front of Joffrey, and asked, “Another round, or are you done?”

Joffrey tossed back his drink, and ordered, "Clegane, I need a gasper and a refill."

Sansa smiled coolly, and sipped from her own glass. Jon was keeping Joffrey's glass topped up with the Stark's best whiskey - no hooch for the Lannisters - but Sansa's own glass held nothing but cold noodle juice. Her opponent was more than halfway to ossified already.

Shuffling the cards again, she declared, “Five card draw, aces low, jokers wild.”

Dealing five cards apiece with expert precision, Sansa studied her cards, then pushed out enough chips to match everything Joffrey had in front of him.

Joffrey sneered, and pushed out all his remaining chips. “Call.”

Sansa discarded one card, and drew another, and waited for Joffrey to follow her example. She pushed out another pile of chips, and allowed the faintest of smirks to cross her face.

"Lay out your mazuma, or cut your losses," she informed Joffrey.

“Hound, get me some more chips.”

“You don’t have any money left,” the Hound rumbled.

“What do you mean, no money?” Joffrey sputtered.

“I mean, you don’t have any cash left in your wallet.”

Joffrey sighed explosively. “Fine, I’ll give a marker.”

“We don’t take markers in this room,” Sansa informed him flatly.

“I’m a Lannister!” Joffrey squawked. “We rule the West side!”

“We don’t take markers in this room. No exceptions.”

Joffrey’s face turned red, and he screeched, “I’m not walking away until I win! Who are you, to tell me I can’t play? A cancelled stamp like you!”

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, and smirked. “Cancelled stamp? This breathtaking Sheba? My poor boy, did she turn you down?”

“I ditched her! She wasn’t worth the crowbar to pry her thighs open.”

“I wasn’t the one not worth the effort,” Sansa countered.

“Fine!” Joffrey snarled. “How much do I put on the table to get a night in your bed?”

Sansa gave him her coldest, most withering smile. “If you want to buy a woman, go to the Mockingbird. We only deal in cash at Winterfell.”

“Everything’s up for grabs,” Joffrey sneered. “Even you. The Lannisters will back anything I put on the table. How much?”

“You don’t have anything worth that much.”

“How much?”

Sansa crossed her legs, to let the hidden slit in her skirt gape open - and give her better access to the derringer holstered on her thigh. She sighed, “You’re not going to give this up and leave, are you?”

Unconsciously, Joffrey tapped his cards, face-down on the table. “Not a chance in the Seven Hells.”

Sansa regarded him for a moment, then turned in her chair to reach into a drawer on the sideboard behind her, bringing out an elegant stationery set.

“Fine. Anything to shut your flaps.” She tore off a piece of notepaper, penned several lines, then slid the paper to Oberyn. “Mr Martell, would you be so kind as to witness this?”

Oberyn read the paper. “This note entitles the bearer to one night in Sansa Stark’s bed, from sunset until dawn according to the weather report in the Times, on a date of the bearer’s choosing.”

He nodded, and took the pen, signing and dating the paper below Sansa’s signature. He then folded both hands over it on the table, keeping it from being snatched.

“So, young Mr Lannister, how will you match it?” he asked pleasantly. “I warn you, I **will** tear up this note unless Miss Stark agrees to your stakes in return. Which I will also witness.”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Piker,” Sansa sneered.

“A thousand.”

“I thought you were taking this seriously.”

“Fine, then! What will it take?”

Sansa tilted her head and regarded her opponent. “A bullet.”

At Joffrey’s puzzled expression, Sansa clarified, “In your brain. Fired by myself or my chosen proxy.”

Joffrey’s jaw dropped so far, Sansa could see that he’d had his tonsils out.

“That’s my stake. Call it or fold.”

Joffrey visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and nodded. “Done.”

“Joffrey, clear out the wooden nickels from your skull,” snarled the Hound.

“You shut up, dog! I’m a Lannister. We rule this city!” He slammed his hand down on his face-down cards. “Give me the pen.”

Sansa smirked. “Given my previous experiences with you, I’ll write the marker.”

Joffrey’s glare tried very hard to set her alight. Unfortunately for him, even a Targaryen needed a dragon to burn a person alive.

Oberyn read out the note, the terms exactly as Sansa had described. He slid the paper and pen to Joffrey, who scribbled his name. Oberyn then signed and dated his own name, and placed both markers next to the pile of chips in the middle of the table.

Joffrey stared at the two pieces of paper, then looked up at Sansa with a savage grin. “Call.”

Sansa flipped her cards.

“Three Queens,” snickered Joffrey. “Girls really have no place at the poker table.”

He spread out his own cards with a flamboyant flip of his hand. “Three Jacks, two sixes – full house. I only wish I could tell my father that I fucked a Stark bitch when he couldn’t.”

Sansa coughed politely, “Ahem.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed.

The sapphire ring on Sansa’s left hand caught the light as she tapped her cards. She spread them out a little further, then pointed to the fifth card, no longer half-underneath the ace of spades.

“Jokers wild. Four Queens.”

For a long moment, everyone in the room froze. 

The room was silent as the grave.

That is, until Oberyn Martell threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah, this is a game I will remember for a very long time. However, I think I must make discretion the better part of valour, and leave the room before accounts are settled.”

Gracefully getting to his feet, Oberyn bowed deeply to Sansa. “Miss Stark, I stand in awe of your nerve, and I will sing the praises of your table far and wide. I bid you farewell.”

Taking his cocktail glass with him, the Dornishman strolled out, the main door closing behind him with a soft whuff.

“From the expression on your mug, I take it you’re welching,” Sansa stated coolly. “So much for the words of your House. I’ll need to make sure everyone who sits at my table or enters our place knows that there is at least one Lannister who does not pay his debts.”

“But… but…” Joffrey sputtered.

"Scram, Lannister," Sansa ordered. "Or I hand over your marker to Snow, and he takes you for a ride."

Joffrey's eyes were all but bugging out of his head now, and his voice had hit a higher pitch than an opera diva's. "You can't do this to me-"

He choked, as his collar was grabbed from behind and twisted around his throat, cutting off his air.

"She just did, you idiot," the Hound rasped. "Now, we're going to leave, and go straight to your grandfather, where you can explain how you got yourself into this mess."

Joffrey looked more embarrassed than scared by the prospect. More proof that he had a head full of wooden nickels.

As he dragged Joffrey out of his chair by the scruff of his neck, the Hound's eyes met Sansa's. For a long moment, their gazes held, then Sandor Clegane gave her a slow, short nod. An acknowledgement and salute.

Sansa returned the nod respectfully.

Sandor dragged a whining Joffrey out the side door, held open by a stone-faced Jon.

Jon quietly closed the door, walked back to the table... and a grin split his face.

"You pulled it off," Jon said jubilantly. "I can't believe it!"

"Believe it," Sansa smirked. "O ye of little faith," she added archly.

Jon must have caught the slight undertone of hurt - Jon, of all people, doubting her! - and he answered, "I had every faith in **you** , sweet girl. I just had trouble believing that even Joffrey Lannister was that dumb." He looked at her curiously, and asked, "Would you really have bumped him off, if the Hound wasn't here?"

Sansa shook her head. "Cersei Lannister would go to the mattresses to avenge her precious little boy, and that kind of hassle we don't need. Either way, Joffrey will never be able to show his face in this town again. We have his marker - even if we don't kill him, we've got the goods he's a welcher, and able to humiliate him just for making such a stupid bet at all, let alone for those stakes. Tywin will ship Joffrey off to Casterley Rock for good to get him out of sight and out of power, even if only to minimise the embarrassment of having such an idiot in the family."

Jon twirled Joffrey's chair backwards, and sat on it, before pouring himself a fresh glass of whiskey. "What's going to happen to the Lannisters, with the heir presumptive out of the way?"

Sansa shrugged. "Twyin's as dangerous a lion as he ever was, but he'll be a lot more wary of us now. We just need to make sure he keeps the reins on Cersei. Tyrion can't be discounted, of course, but he prefers to make his own success where he can, and Tywin will never acknowledge that the Imp's the only one with the brains, the nerve, and most importantly the self-control to take over. That leaves Myrcella, who's far too nice a girl for this business - not to mention she's carrying a torch for Robb."

"Wait, really?"

Sansa sighed, "You really haven't noticed? Or Tommen, who's so tightly wrapped around Margaery Tyrell's finger she might as well have a manacle on him already."

Jon nearly choked on his whiskey. “He’s sixteen!”

“So is Bran, and he’s running half our operation,” Sansa pointed out, as she sorted through the chips on the table. “At least the Tyrells are mostly on the up-and-up. Tommen would much happier living on the right side of the law, I think.”

Jon shrugged, and watched her sort the chips by denomination. Quicker than drawing his gat, his free hand reached out and snatched up the piece of ivory notepaper she’d written her marker on.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked, evening out a stack of chips.

“Claiming my cut,” Jon replied smoothly. Grinning at her wickedly, he folded up the note pledging a night in her bed, and carefully slid it into the inside breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, raised her hand, and let a pile of chips fall like rain from her slender fingers.

Jon kept grinning, and patted his jacket, over the pocket. “I got to watch Joffrey Lannister’s face fall like a broken elevator. After that, this is all I need.”

Sansa let a seductive smile slide across her face. “You don’t need a marker to get between my thighs, Jon, you’re my man. All you need to do is ask.”

Jon kept grinning. Probably because he **was** her man, and thus knew the effect that making a player dance to her tune had on her.

“So…” Sansa asked, her hands busily neatening the two biggest stacks of chips. “When you planning on cashing in that marker?”

“This little note gets me an entire night with you, sweetheart. I’m not wasting it by calling it in at one in the morning.”

Sansa huffed in exasperation, and stacked the sorted chips into the box on the sideboard.

As she fastened the latch on the box, Jon watched her thoughtfully, and asked, “How about another game?”

Sansa looked at him and tilted her head in invitation.

“Let’s make it simple. Twenty-one, best out of three. You win, I’ll buy you that cloche I saw you eyeballing at Madame Fifi’s last week.”

“And if you win?” 

Jon stood, righted the chair and deliberately shed his jacket, laying it on the sideboard, then his bow tie. 

“If I win, I get to strip you naked and fuck you on the table until one of us has rug burns from the felt.”

Sansa grinned. “Done.”

She knew how to win when it counted – how much harder would it be to lose?  Worst case, she could double down.

**Author's Note:**

> Research links, 1920's slang:  
> https://thoughtcatalog.com/nico-lang/2013/09/59-quick-slang-phrases-from-the-1920s-we-should-start-using-again/  
> http://www.1920s-fashion-and-music.com/1920s-slang.html  
> http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/Social%20Studies/PDF/Slang%20of%20the%201920s.pdf  
> http://www.huffenglish.com/gatsby/slang.html


End file.
